


Body, body

by Anonymous



Category: All the Wrong Questions - Lemony Snicket
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Eye Trauma, Gen, Mutilation, Mystery, YES that includes his siblings, and that everyone hates him and has abandoned him, this is an AU where I do horrible things to Snicket, warning that this is DARK, will add more as it goes on
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-19 06:47:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29870766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: No one quite knows where he went (not that anyone bothered to search, mind).Thank goodness he left parts to follow.
Kudos: 6
Collections: Anonymous





	1. See No Evil

There was a package.

It sat and kept sitting on the rickety, old table for hours, every part of her refusing to touch the offensive, dangerous object. The sight of it alone ran her thoughts wild and ragged with paranoia, fingers curled like talons as she gripped the edge of the table, her eyes burning after refusing to blink for so long.

There isn't supposed to be a package. _No one should be able to send her a package_ , because no one is supposed to know who she is, much less where she is. 

But the package still stands, deceptively innocent, small enough to fit on the palm of her hand. There was no return address. 

Ellington took a deep, shaky breath, ignoring the floating specks of dust illuminated by what little sliver of light manages to slip in the cramped, dusty room. It was a temporary lodging, to serve as her base of operations while she goes out doing business that isn't anyone's pry about. One night of such escapade, the package was already there.

Her mind has been reeling the potential list of people responsible for the past hour over and over, and to her frustrations, end up concluding that none of them would pull off something like this.

Then again, she has been wrong about her assumptions of people before.

It's no bomb — at least she doesn't think it is, not when it's absurdly light. She doesn't think there is poison within, because there are quicker ways to do so and that would've been nothing short of a hassle (and she knows — she tried it). Lastly, its destination is no doubt, deliberate. Whoever is the sender, wants her to have it.

She gingerly picks it up.

Instinctively, she should throw such a threat into the trash, her past was nothing short of a series of lessons that helped her survive, but something deep inside her gut felt drawn towards it, despite its unremarkable, brown covering. She turns it around her hands, observing every inch for a hint of danger, before finally gripping and edge, and tear it off.

Underneath, was another metallic container, and as her fingers touched it feels the shock of cold. She pries off the lid, blinking as she retrieves a piece of paper.

_An Eye for an Eye._

_You're welcome._

Every thought in her mind blanks, her heart pounding against her ribs. She doesn't understand what it means, not beyond the words and she can feel panic bubbling if there was an intent of revenge from the sender. But she rereads it, again and again, and from what little she can dissect, she is not a recipient of any malicious but rather vengeance. For something. Or someone.

Her fingers twitched. She does wants justice, has been working to set it up for the very person for the past year, but apparently, someone went ahead and has done the deed for her. If it really was that same person. She wonder what they have done that would absolutely satisfy her. What inkling of all-consuming vengeance that can be compacted into such a small package? 

Discarding the paper, she peers into the box, and her eyes widen, the package slipping out of her hands and loudly drop into the floor as she barely held in a scream.

Down on the ground, a singular, brown eye rolls out of the package.


	2. Hear No Evil

_Skrsh skrh skrsh_.

  
The left side of his palm chaffes painfully across the blank sheet, a callous growing in the middle finger.

  
_Skrsh skrsh skrsh_.

  
He's been holding the pen too tight, his digits felt locked into place. The muscles in his neck felt like one giant knot. He ignores the complains of his body.

  
_Skrsh skrsh skrsh_.

  
The ink reaches the end of the paragraph and his patience. Jacques leans back on his chair from where he leant over his report, his body both screaming in complaint and sighing in long sought relief. He stretches, working out the kinks in his muscles, ignoring the pops and cracks. And then he relaxes, sinking into his chair in an utmost distasteful fashion.

If it were any other day, he would have never allow himself into such a state. A volunteer must always be prim and proper, they have told him, and he has told himself. But for now, he could not give it a scruple of care, disdainfully gazing at his work. If Kit were here —

He put a clamp on that thought right then and there. That was a close one. Work is really running him ragged. Which would be good, if it was actually doing its job putting his mind off things.

  
Putting his mind off the container under his desk.

  
Despite containing letters and records sent to him over a year, it was nothing of value. You'd think he'd be discouraged after he had wrapped his hands aaround his throat and nonexistent replies, but his brother was always a stubborn one. But in spite of its worthlessness, it hung around in the back of his mind, a blight disconcerting mess in its threshes.

  
Jacques sighs. None of the contents are opened. Everytime he catches sight of it, his heart goes cold; they evoke nothing but contempt. He'd would've thrown them in the trash, burn them to ashes long ago but. But he can't. It felt wrong, somehow, and so he self-flagellates himself everyday wuth its presence. One day, perhaps, once he was all wrinkled and ragged and silvery hair, perhaps he'd be willing to talk to him. That is, assuming he'd live that long, considering his line of work.

  
Jacques sighs. Oh, well. Time to stop working, it's late, and he's tired anyway. But before that...

  
He retrieves the two identical packages from a corner of his table.

  
Typically, he sorts out through his mail first thing in the morning, but it's habit of his to lay off of it until late into the night, especially when it's likely some of those letters came from a certain someone. However, whenever he sneaks a glance at its address, he notices that one of them was addressed to Kit, and one to him, but no sender.

  
His training tells him that this is death in a box, a danger, a _threat_. But his volunteer mind has always been morbidly curious; its a singular trait every member of VFD has.

  
Later, he'd give Kit her package, once he worked up his moxie for it, although he deeply dreads that inevitable interaction. For now, he rips off the brown wrapping, pries off the lid, and reads a note.

  
_Go in One Ear..._

_You're Welcome_

  
_And Out the Other_ , Jacques completes the quote in his head. It's likely the other half of it was in Kit's. He frowns, finally setting his eyes inside the box. 

  
He stiffens, as fear prickled on the back of his neck, staring in horror at the singular cut ear, placed neatly in the middle of the box.


	3. Speak No Evil

Two books. That's all she was asking for. Two damned books.

  
The array of books spines, typically a comforting sight, made her eyes ache. She's been tediously running her strict gaze over and over on every shelf, searching with an unparalleled vehemence, but no dive. Stabbing pain burned through the soles of her feet, screaming for rest.

  
Very tempting. The head on her shoulders felt quite heavy. The very thought of bed time was nothing short of sweet, sweet nectar but — no. She cannot. She wouldn't dare risk allowing her thoughts to slow down, for treacherous feelings to catch up to her —

Work. There is still much work to be done.

Kit would've asked Dewey for help; his chaperone is on a mission, so this whole library is his for the time being, but he gets called away, to solve some commotion in another room or other. So, she's on her own.

  
Not quite on her own. Yet she doesn't think she could stand talking to Jacques. Even if their conversations were strictly business nowadays, the air remains fraught with iciness and tension, instructions and replies said with clipped voices. She brushes that idea off the table.  
Kit sighs, rolling away the knots in her shoulders and returns her attention to the books. The hands carressing every spine, breezing through them as dust gathers on the tips of her fingers, its titles blurring together —

_The Wind in the Willows_

  
Her hand stops.

  
She closes her eyes. It was painful, after having them open for so long without blinking, making them water. There was a numb, stinging pain into her palms from her fingernails, fists clenched so tightly they shook from the strain. Her teeth gnashed and gritted at one another, spiking a pain to her temples. Her attempts at distraction ended up futile, as the nefarious thoughts that she has locked away for months ran itself rampant, as she can feel the sting of betrayal and red hot anger boil in her heart singing away in her veins, left there on that very night, by her —

A sound snaps her out of her thoughts, jolting her like an electric shock, heart pounding. It was not pleasant, and she can feel her anger shift its target, mixing with annoyance — yet she stops, when she sees Dewey, having arrived with a troubled, sickened expression. He looks on the verge of throwing up.

"What is it?" she inquires, before he could say, "There is a situation."

"There is a situation," he ekes out, shaking his hands as if to shake off his nerves. "VFD has received a package."

Kit crosses her arms and raises her brow questioningly. Receiving packages aren't unusual, but it must be something quite serious if it manages to unhinged Dewey.

"It — it's —" He grimaces, looking sick all over again. Reluctance seeps into his features as he procures out a piece of paper. "I ... I must warn you that it's nothing good."

  
_Finally got the Cat's Tongue._

_You're Welcome._

  
She frowns, the words made little sense, and she is unsure of what it implies. They have many enemies for sure, but she's fairly certain they have one that would do them a favor. Dewey hands over another small package, its metallic lid off. As she observes its content, her heart goes cold, all traces off exhaustion replaced with horror.

Sitting in the middle, was a pink, severed tongue.


End file.
